All language subtitles for Theater.Of.Blood.1973.1080

That damned editor's cut the
best part of my review.

So I noticed, dear. You ought
to have a chat with him.

Oh.

My most provocative comment, too,

where I said the leading lady
attacked her role with both hands

and strangled it to death.

Maxwell here.

Yes, I'm the chairman of the Bermondsey
Housing and Redevelopment Committee.

Really, Constable, you
don't need me for that.

Oh. Well, if you feel that I'm the
only one who can handle it, yes.

Yes, I'll be there within the hour.

Apparently squatters have settled in the
ruin of that tenement we're tearing down.

- I have to throw them out.
- Must it be you?

- Yes, they need someone with authority.
- But you have the Critics Circle meeting.

- I can handle this in a very few moments.
- Please don't go. Let someone else do it.

- Why? What's worrying you?
- I had such a bad dream last night.

We were at the zoo. There was a storm
and lightning broke open the lions' cages.

- Well?
- We ran from the animals, but you fell.

Before I could help,
they tore you to pieces.

I'm not going anywhere near
the zoo today, my dear.

You might ring Perry Devlin and tell him
I'll be a bit late for the Critics meeting.

George, I read your
horoscope this morning.

It said March is a difficult month.
Avoid unexpected engagements.

The ides of March, eh?

Well, we must not put our faith in dreams
and horoscopes, must we, my love?

I'll call you later.

- Very good of you to come, sir.
- Not at all.

Only too happy to help the police.

They're a stubborn lot, sir. I'm afraid
you're going to have to be very firm.

Yes, well, let's get
on with it, then.

All right, all of you.
This is private property.

Out.

Out!

Come on, do you hear me? Get out!

I want all of you out of here.
Come on. Get up.

Come on, then. You heard.

Get out!

Get up, there. All of you!

You've got to get out.

You heard me.

Come on, then. Let's
have no trouble here.

Come on!

Constable! Constable!

A little help here.

Help!

Help!

O, pardon me, thou
bleeding piece of earth,

that I am meek and gentle
with these butchers.

You!

It's you.

- But you're dead.
- No.

No. Another critical miscalculation
on your part, dear boy.

I am well. It is you who are dead.

Friends,

Romans,

countrymen,

lend me your ears.

I come to bury Caesar,
not to praise him.

Here, under leave of
Brutus and the rest,

come I to speak in
Caesar's funeral.

He was my friend,
faithful and just to me.

But Brutus says he was ambitious,

and Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many
captives home to Rome,

whose ransoms did the
general coffers fill.

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?

Stop!

Stop! I haven't finished yet.

Stage manager. Discipline in the
theatre is your responsibility.

Please do enforce it immediately.

You drunken bum!

You should treasure this
opportunity to listen to a master.

The world's greatest living actor.

Wisdom and goodness to
the vile seem vile.

Filths savour but themselves.

Here, filths.

Put money in thy purse.

Always late.

Why can't George ever be on time?

Do let's start. I'm interviewing that
divine young actor at the Apollo.

I don't want to miss tea with him
for pompous old George Maxwell.

As we're six weeks away from the awards
ceremony, I must insist we get under way,

especially as I have
to leave shortly.

Come off it, Sprouty. Your wife's
picking you up in half an hour

and doesn't like to
be kept waiting.

- That's uncalled-for, Merridew.
- Would you look after Georgie?

- She gets so nervous in committee.
- Take that revolting animal away.

Let's put it to the vote, then.
Three of you want to begin.

- What do you say, Psaltery?
- I say wait. It's only courtesy.

- Dickman?
- I say get on with it.

And let your gorgeous secretary send him
the minutes of our profound deliberations.

Great idea, Dickman, but I'm afraid
that glorious secretary isn't with us.

I say wait, and let's have another glass
of this splendid Chateau Latour '52.

Rosemary, you all right?

I've come from the newspaper. They
want you to go to Bermondsey.

- We're starting the meeting.
- You'll stop it when you hear this.

Good heavens, darling. What
an entrance. What suspense.

- Tell us. What's happened?
- George Maxwell is dead.

He's been murdered. They say
he's been cut to ribbons.

- Good God! I can't believe it!
- Good heavens!

How? I don't understand.

I don't know. They just say
he's been hacked to pieces.

The editor wants you to write an article
as a tribute to a fellow critic.

At last, a headline.

Instead of a by-line.

- Sure you want to see this, Mr Devlin?
- I'll have to if I'm to write a report.

All right, Sergeant.

I haven't seen a man cut like that in
all my 20 years in the police force.

Nor me. And that's only his head!

Any idea who did this?

We know by the different weapons
used there were at least six,

but we've yet to
discover who they were.

Found something
interesting, Mr Devlin?

No, only this old poster.

Oh, yes. I saw him once.

He's a very, um...
very vigorous actor.

That's a good description.

- I take it you didn't like him.
- No, I didn't.

I could never write
anything good about him.

Funny, but you begin to resent an actor if
you always have to give him bad notices.

Edward Lionheart alive! Incredible.
Quite incredible. I can hardly believe it.

Very much alive, sir. Very
anxious to see you, sir.

Oh, the old Burbage Theatre.
I thought it had been burnt down.

There was a fire, sir. Mr
Lionheart's fixed the place up.

- He's preparing for a comeback.
- Oh, most interesting.

Wonderful old building.

Astounding! Quite astounding.

Look, Hector, how the
sun begins to set.

How ugly night comes
breathing at his heels.

Even with the violent
darkening of the sun

to close the day up,

Hector's life is done.

Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.

Those were the days.

- Well, where is he?
- He's down there, sir.

What?

But I can't see him.

Hello?

Hello?

Oh.

Oh.

Lionheart.

Oh, my dear sir, what a pleasure
to see you well and alive.

Yes, it was a remarkable
resurrection, as you shall hear.

What a great honour you should choose
me to tell your stories to the world.

Well, I've always admired
you as a critic, Snipe.

Your clever turn of phrase, your
use of analogy and metaphor.

One always felt that you were
striving to be complimentary.

- Most generous...
- But not always complimentary.

Critics make errors.
After all, we're all human.

An opinion I find myself
incapable of sharing.

You must admit I was most enthusiastic
about your performance as Achilles.

Oh, yes. Yes, now that you mention it,
I vaguely recall you wrote some review.

I remember it very well.

I wrote "Edward Lionheart's
Troilus and Cressida

"must be considered as a brilliant
theatrical achievement,

"and his own performance
as Achilles unsurpassed."

- Well, something of that sort.
- A splendid review, my dear Snipe.

- What else did you say?
- More, in the same vein.

Let me refresh your memory.

"Achilles unsurpassed...

"This clearly is
Lionheart's own view.

"That actor's oft-expressed desire
for solitude is well known.

"He must derive much satisfaction in
knowing that he is absolutely alone

"in his opinion of this
lamentable production."

- Did I write that?
- Your name is Hector Snipe?

I can only say that you were one actor
who could always accept criticism.

Criticism is one
thing, my dear Snipe.

Then there is the little matter of
the Critics Award Presentation.

I can't accept blame for that.

Devlin was president of the Circle, and
you know how persuasive he can be.

Devlin? Do you think you can
hide your guilt behind his?

Maxwell thought so, too.

It's all right, sir. No need to worry,
sir. You're among friends here, sir.

Oh, thank you, my dear man. I was
getting a little bit nervous.

We were rehearsing
Troilus and Cressida.

The scene where Hector,
believing he was among friends,

was brutally murdered by
them without warning,

and his body dragged from the
battlefield tied to a horse's tail.

Lionheart, I came here for an interview,
not for a lecture on Shakespeare.

Now, tell us this remarkable
story of your resurrection.

It's a grave tale, Snipe,
and difficult to write,

but I am sure you can
rise to the occasion.

Stand back! Get out of the way!

The dragon wing of night
o'erspreads the earth.

My half-supp'd spear, that
frankly would have fed,

pleased with this dainty bait,

thus goes to bed.

In the midst of life,
we are in death.

We therefore commit his
body to the ground.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

in sure and certain hope of the
resurrection to eternal life

through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Man that is born of a woman hath but a
short time to live and is full of misery.

He cometh up and is cut
down like a flower.

He fleeth as it were a shadow and
never continueth in one stay.

Almighty God, Father of all
mercies and giver of all comfort,

deal graciously, we pray
thee, with those who mourn,

that casting every care on thee, they
may know the consolation of thy love,

through Jesus Christ our Lord.

- Amen.
- Who's that girl?

- Sh!
- I'm sure I know her from somewhere.

Do be quiet, Perry.

Be with us all ever more.

Amen.

Imperious Caesar dead
and turn'd to clay,

might stop a hole to
keep the wind away.

O! That that earth which
kept the world in awe,

should patch a wall to
expel the winter's flaw.

Come, tie his body
to my horse's tail.

Along the field I will
the Trojan trail.

Shall I be seeing you at the club?

Oh, no!

Whoa, there.

- Know him?
- Yeah.

Yeah. Hector Snipe.

- A critic?
- Yeah.

But he's supposed to be
one of the mourners.

George Maxwell, Hector Snipe...
both dead, both critics. Now, why?

Who hates you enough to want
to kill two of your circle?

Critics are likely to
make enemies, Inspector.

You might call it an
occupational hazard.

But, darling boy, they won't start killing
people for writing bad notices, will they?

Well, why not? A play fails, directors,
writers, actors, careers ruined.

Plenty of motivation
there, I should think.

Are you saying some lunatic in the
theatre might be trying to kill us all?

It's a distinct possibility. I'd like
you all to give it some thought.

If you have any ideas, get
in touch with me... at once.

Take me home. I think
I'm going to be ill.

Oh, my God. I think
Georgina's going to faint.

- I know who it is.
- What?

That girl. Edwina Lionheart.

Hello, Edwina.
I thought it was you.

Well, the brilliant
Peregrine Devlin.

Wielder of the brutal aphorism.

Master of the killing phrase.

My father's murderer.

- That's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?
- Oh, forgive me. I forgot.

It was your reverence and admiration
that drove him to take his own life.

- You don't understand.
- I understand the greatest ever actor

never earned your approval
for one single performance.

Never. Not one good review.

In his entire career your father refused
to appear in anything but Shakespeare.

A truly great actor illuminates
the present as well as the past.

I attacked him in order to goad
him into the 20th century.

What do you want, Devlin?

Information for a vicious
posthumous attack on him?

No.

Look, Edwina, your father's
body was never found.

My father is as good
as under that granite.

You and your pack needn't fear
he's come back to haunt you.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun.

No exorciser harm thee.

Nor the furious winter's rages.

Nor no witchcraft charm thee.

Thou thy worldly task has done.

Ghost unlaid forbear thee.

Home hath gone and ta'en thy wages.

Nothing ill come near thee.

Golden lads and girls all must.

Quiet consummation have.

Like chimney sweepers come to dust.

And renowned be thy grave.

Bravo!

Thank you, thank you.
An excellent dress rehearsal.

But tonight we shall play Cymbeline

as it has never been played before.

I simply don't understand
these modern playwrights.

What we saw this evening
didn't make sense at all.

I'm not so sure about that, dear.

It was incomprehensible
rubbish, and you know it.

Yes, I'm sure you're right.

Good gracious.

According to Agnes, it came this evening.
What to do with it, she does not know.

You must remove it, Horace. I can't
have a thing like that in my bedroom.

Well, don't just stand there.

Why don't you open it?

- I can't without a key and tools, can I?
- Well, deal with it in the morning, then.

Yes, dear.

Horace, you're snoring.

- Oh, dear. Was I?
- How many more times?

- Hypodermic.
- Hypo.

Ooh!

- Sheet.
- Sheet.

- Lipstick.
- Lipstick.

- Scalpel.
- Scalpel.

Basin.

Basin!

- Saw.
- Saw.

Horace! How many more times?

You're snoring again.

- Hypodermic.
- Hypodermic.

Ooh!

Morning, ma'am.

Good morning, Mr Sprout.

Here's your breakfast.

Aaargh!

Horace!

Horace!

Mr... Mr Sprout...

Aaargh!

All right, that's enough.

Get that thing out of here.

Constable.

D'you have that list
of your colleagues?

My remaining colleagues, yes.

You wouldn't have a match on
you by any chance, would you?

Thanks very much.

Sergeant, get every one of
these people on the phone,

tell them to stay where they are
until a constable picks them up

and delivers them
here for a meeting.

And stress that on no account are
they to go out alone. Right?

Well, Mr Devlin. There's
no doubt about it now.

He's after you all.

Mr Dickman?

Yes. Trevor Dickman.

Your secretary told me
I might find you here.

Really? That was terribly
considerate of her.

- Have you heard the news?
- No. What?

His head cut off?
I can't believe it.

Isn't it simply awful?
Poor Mr Sprout.

But how did you know this?
I haven't seen anything in the papers.

Sprouty decapitated.

I was supposed to take him to
our rehearsal this morning,

but when I called at his house...

There, there, my child.

- Can I get you a brandy?
- Oh, no. No, thank you.

It's just that Mr Sprout was
such a good friend to our group.

He took such an interest in me.

I'm not surprised, my dear.

Old Sprouty always had
an eye for talent.

- You are an actress?
- Yes, but only an amateur.

Mr Sprout was kind enough to
say he'd watch us rehearse

and give us the benefit of
his professional opinion.

Can you imagine how brave it was of poor
Mrs Sprout, even in her terrible distress,

to suggest that I come
to you, his best friend,

and ask you to substitute?

- Right now, you mean?
- Oh, but could you?

Could you?

Well, I'd do anything
for old Sprouty.

Perhaps after rehearsal, we could
have a little supper together?

And then you could tell
me what you think of me.

About your performance, you mean?

Yes. Shall we go?

So from now on until this
madman is apprehended,

you will all be protected day
and night by one of our men.

Thank goodness for that.
D'you hear that?

This nice policeman is going to see to it
that we're all, all, all of us, all right.

Oh, God, Merridew. Don't be so
disgusting. I need another drink.

What about our families?
What about my wretched wife?

- We're the targets. Not our families.
- Yes, you're right, Mr Devlin.

- What is it, Sergeant?
- Mr Dickman, sir.

His office said he was at lunch,

so I sent a car to the restaurant right
away, but I'm afraid we missed him.

- Missed him?
- Only just.

Come on.

I think we'll all have a drink.

I do hope you'll enjoy this, Mr Dickman.
It's our most ambitious production.

Really?

- Put the prisoner in the dock.
- Hear! Hear!

It's living theatre with
audience participation.

Living theatre! How very interesting.
A unique conception.

You call me misbeliever,
cut-throat dog,

and spit upon my Jewish gaberdine.

Well, then, it now appears
you need my help.

Shall I bend low, and
in a bondsman's key,

with bated breath and
whispering humbleness say this:

"Fair sir, you spit on me
on Wednesday last,

"you spurn'd me such a day,

"another time you call'd me dog..."

Ah, we're doing The
Merchant of Venice.

And you are Antonio.

Me Antonio? I'm no actor.
I'm just a critic.

You'll find we've made several
slight alterations in the text

and one rather large cut.

Thou call'dst me dog
before thou hadst a cause,

but, if I am a dog,

beware my fangs.

I have possess'd your
Grace of what I purpose.

And by our holy
Sabbath have I sworn

to have the due and
forfeit of my bond.

Psst! Psst!

Oh, it's me.

- It's your cue.
- Oh.

Make no more offers?

Make no more offers,
use no further means,

but with all brief and
plain conveniency,

let me have judgment
and this man his will.

No, no, no, with more feeling.

Let me have judgment
and this man his will!

I pray you, let me
look upon the bond.

Here 'tis, most reverend
doctor, here it is.

Why, this bond is forfeit.

And lawfully by this Shylock
may claim a pound of flesh

to be by him cut off nearest
the merchant's heart.

Be merciful.

There is no power in the
tongue of man to alter me.

I stand here on my bond.

Oh, that's me again.

Most heartily I do beseech the
court to give the judgment.

Why then, thus it is:

You must prepare your
bosom for his knife.

'Tis very true. O wise
and upright judge.

Therefore lay bare your bosom.

Now, look here...

Lay bare your bosom.

Living theatre, yes, but isn't
this going a bit too far?

Come, Merchant, have
you anything to say?

Repent not you that you
shall lose your friend,

and he repents not that
he pays your debt.

For if he do but cut deep enough,

I'll pay it instantly
with all my heart.

Now we come to the
part where Portia,

with a mean pettifogging little piece
of legal trickery, saves your life.

But we have revised the script.

No! Argh! Argh! Argh!

Lionheart...

Do you still think that my
Shylock was inadequate?

That is the adjective you
used, I believe... inadequate.

No, no. The best. The best!
I always said you were the best.

No, the best is given the Critics Award.
Why did you vote against me?

I didn't. It was Devlin.

Now let me go, please. Let me go!

Devlin? You craven scum.

You're hardly worth the trouble and
expense of this special performance.

Oh, no, no, no!

Aaargh!

- It was a pound exactly, was it not?
- A pound, no more, no less.

This is two ounces over.

16 ounces exactly.

Art thou content?

I am content.

There they go.

Mr Larding and Miss Moon.

Well, they should be
nicely taken care of.

Yes.

Now, Mr Devlin, you had something
to say to me in private.

I've an idea who might be
responsible for the killings.

Indeed. That's what we
want to hear, Mr Devlin.

Are you familiar with the
plays of William Shakespeare?

I've been to the Old Vic once or twice.
I wouldn't call myself a scholar.

No, no. Well, take a look at this.

Ah, Edward Lionheart again.
Well, what about him?

Julius Caesar was stabbed to death by
several assassins on the ides of March...

the 15th of March.

That's very interesting.

- What date was Maxwell murdered?
- 15th of March, sir.

- And the cause of death?
- 28 lacerations of the...

Yes, fine, fine.

- Multiple stab wounds.
- Right.

In Troilus and Cressida Hector
is murdered with a spear

and his body is dragged away
tied to the tail of a horse.

In Cymbeline, Imogen wakes up

and finds the headless body
of Cloten in bed with her.

Yes, well, that's all very provocative,
Mr Devlin, but what would his motive be?

I think I know only too well.

The Critics Circle
Awards two years ago.

You see, Lionheart was totally convinced
the Best Actor Award was going to him.

In fact, he'd even risen
to his feet to accept it.

But, by a unanimous decision, it went to a
brilliant newcomer... William Woodstock.

There you are.

After the awards we came back here for
drinks prior to our annual dinner.

By the way, Perry, I brought the
awards back for safekeeping.

Thank you. What arrangements have
you made about the engravings?

The goldsmith will have them
engraved within the week.

Fine.

Well, I think this
calls for a toast, hm?

I think it all went
well, don't you?

- I felt the caterers did very well...
- Very good, yes.

Hm?

Lionheart, what the
hell do you want here?

This!

My just reward.

The whole world knows
that it is mine by right.

But you deliberately
withheld it from me.

You deliberately humiliated me before
the press, my public and my peers.

It was the culmination of your
determined denial of my genius.

We've denied you nothing.

For 30 years the public has
acknowledged that I was the master

and that this year my season of
Shakespeare was the shining jewel

in the crown of the Immortal Bard.

- Quite insane.
- He must be drunk.

But you,

with your overweening malice,

give the award to a
twitching, mumbling boy

who can barely grunt his way through
an incomprehensible performance.

No, no.

It is mine!

Father.

Father, please come away.

You mustn't do this.

You're only helping
them to hurt you more.

Edwina...

Oh, my God!

What have I done?

Father.

My God, we've got
the entire family!

Look at him. Really!

To be, or not to be:

that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler
in the mind to suffer

the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune,

or to take arms against
a sea of troubles,

and by opposing end them?

To die, to sleep. No more.

And, by a sleep to say
we end the heartache

and the thousand natural
shocks that flesh is heir to.

'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wish'd.

To die.

To sleep.

To sleep.

Perchance to dream.

Ay, there's the rub.

For in that sleep of death
what dreams may come

when we have shuffled
off this mortal coil,

must give us pause.

Butchers!

There's the respect that
makes calamity of...

so long life!

It's all our faults. We took advantage
of the occasion to humiliate him.

Yes, well, that's very moving, Mr Devlin...
thank you, miss... but just one question:

how does a dead man
commit three murders?

Obviously he's not dead, Inspector.

All right. Accepting your theory...
Sergeant, what's the next play on the list?

The Merchant of Venice.

- What's the murder in that, then?
- There is no murder in that.

Excuse me, Inspector. This
just arrived for Mr Devlin.

"I'm sorry to have missed the meeting,
but my heart is with you. Dickman."

Open that.

Ugh!

Horrible!

You said there was no murder
in The Merchant of Venice.

The pound of flesh
Antonio owed to Shylock.

It's Lionheart all right.

Only he would have the temerity
to rewrite Shakespeare.

Ah, splendid. Thank
you so much, Officer.

Excuse me, sir. How long
will this wine tasting take?

Oh, well, I'd say within the hour.

- I'll be waiting for you right here, sir.
- Thank you so much, Officer.

- May I see your invitation?
- Oh, yes.

Ah, yes, Mr Larding. We're honoured.
This way, please.

- Thank you.
- I suggest you try a sip of wine.

Now is the winter
of our discontent.

Made glorious summer
by this sun of York.

And all the clouds that
lour'd upon our house

in the deep bosom of
the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound
with victorious wreaths.

Our bruised arms hung
up for monuments.

Our stern alarums changed
to merry meetings.

He capers nimbly in
a lady's chamber

to the lascivious
pleasing of a lute.

Well, now, Larding.

Ladies and gentlemen, if
you will follow me now.

This way to the wine cellar.

How do you do? Hello.

So my performance of Richard the Third
cast such a spell upon the audience

that it put this reviewer into a

"deep sleep from which he awoke much
refreshed and relieved by the knowledge

"that he had been spared the ordeal of
attending to the ageing matinee idol's

"ranting and posturing."

Well, we shall see if
we cannot stir you

to more rapt attention
with today's performance.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul:

here Clarence comes.

As I am subtle, false
and treacherous,

this day should Clarence
be closely mew'd up.

But soft.

Here come my executioners.

I believe you have a passion
for our Chateau Margaux '59.

Oh, rather!

Mm! Oh, yes. That's absolutely
my favourite Médoc.

Oh, rather.

Mm. Oh, yes, it's a fine,
robust conditioned wine, yes.

Sirs!

Be sudden in the execution.

Withal obdurate, do not hear him
plead, for Larding is well-spoken,

and perhaps may move your
hearts to pity if you mark him.

Hello, hello? What's all this, eh?

This is supposed to
be wine tasting.

Lionheart.

- Impossible!
- No!

No, Larding. Not impossible.

It is I... Lionheart.

You disgusting winebibber.

So this reviewer slept
through my Richard, did he?

Because you had guzzled so much wine
beforehand you slept like a drunken hog

through one of my
finest performances!

But you will recall that
the Duke of Clarence,

and I would like you to try
out for that part, Larding,

was drowned in a butt of wine.

Look behind you, my lord.

Oh, no, no, please,
please. Oh, please...

No, no! No, don't!
No, please don't!

Argh!

Excellent, Larding. Excellent.
I shall make an actor of you yet.

Argh!

I thought you might enjoy
that Chambertin '64, Larding.

It's a vintage that
comes on very well.

And, uh, don't hesitate to complain
if it isn't sufficiently chambré.

I wonder if he'll travel well.

Good. That seems to work OK. Now,
don't move your head too much.

I'm busy, Devlin.

Edwina, four of my colleagues
have been murdered.

Their deaths relate directly to your
father's last repertory season.

If you were as imaginative in your
reviews, Devlin, you'd be a better critic.

Before another murder
is committed...

My father was incapable of harming
anyone, let alone killing four people.

Five, Miss Lionheart.
Better make that five.

Larding's just been found dead.

He was drowned.

It seems his lungs were
filled with Chambertin 1964.

Oh, my God. Richard the Third.

Clarence drowned in
a butt of malmsey.

Miss Lionheart, will you accompany us to
the police station to make a statement?

Sergeant.

It's not her, Inspector.
It's her father.

Look, when two people have the same
motives for murder and one is still alive,

who would you arrest?

Just go about your normal life
and leave the rest to us.

Hello, there. Where is everybody?

De Toqueville had a
death in the family.

Oh.

Well, since you have
no worthy opponent,

perhaps you would be good enough to
have a bout or two with me, huh?

I'd be delighted.

I fence twice a week, but
I've never seen you before.

No, this is my first visit.
I'm afraid I'm not very good.

No, I have been very ill.
I had a serious accident.

- I broke a few limbs.
- I'm sorry to hear that.

No. Everything is all right now.

Ja.

I'm splendid.

En? garde!

Just a minute. Your sabre.
There's no button.

Oh, so you noticed that, eh?

Well, then.

There. Now you do not
have one either.

You see!

- Lionheart!
- Alive and triumphant.

And you thought me slain.

Lionheart is immortal. He
can never be destroyed.

Never! Never!

Up! Up!

I thought you were alive, but how?
I mean, how did you survive?

There's no longer any reason why you
shouldn't be told what happened.

O, brave new world,

that had such lovely
creatures in it.

I've nothing against
you, Lionheart.

Why don't you get away while
you still have a chance?

Do you recall what play of the
master's comes next in our repertoire?

Hm?

Let me prick your memory.

All right, then! Romeo and Juliet.

Good.

Good.

Then even an unpolished oaf like you
must be familiar with the duel scene.

You did kill Larding and
the others, didn't you?

How many actors have you
destroyed, as you destroyed me?

How many talented lives have you
cut down with your glib attacks?

What do you know of the blood, sweat
and toil of a theatrical production?

Of the dedication of the men and the
women in the noblest profession of all?

How could you know,
you talentless fools,

who spew vitriol on the
creative efforts of others

because you lack the ability
to create yourselves?

No, Devlin, no! I did not
kill Larding and the others.

Punished them, my dear
boy, punished them.

Just as you shall
have to be punished.

Well, get it over with, then.

So long as you don't make me have to
listen to that demented rubbish of yours.

- Go on, kill me, then.
- I'll kill you when I am ready.

Next week, next month,
perhaps next year.

Oh, I am going to make you suffer
as you have made me suffer.

Argh!

You didn't have to go to such pains
to prove Lionheart was still alive.

Pains!

Or someone else is
impersonating him.

I've seen Lionheart in the theatre
hundreds of times. It was him.

Actually, Mr Devlin, we're convinced
you're right. It's Lionheart. He's our man.

Naturally, we had to
release his daughter.

I'd keep an eye on her, if I were you.
She's a devoted daughter.

Don't worry. She'll be under
constant surveillance.

Now, the next play is Othello.

What's that all about, then?

A malicious man persuades his benefactor
that his wife's been unfaithful

and drives him into murdering her.

Mr Psaltery, sir. This is
a friend speaking, sir.

'It may be wise if you
were to leave the office

'and go home early tonight, sir.

'You might learn something very
interesting about your wife.'

Yoo-hoo!

Here I am.

I'm so glad you've come. You know
how I look forward to your visits.

And how is wee Maisie
Psaltery this bonny day, hey?

Don't keep me waiting, you
naughty man. I'm ready.

I felt so wonderful
after the last time.

But, you know, I had a slight
pain after one of your visits.

Do you think I may
have a slipped disc?

A wee rub'll make it feel better.

Mmm.

Ooh!

You see, my husband and I

lead a very active s...ocial life.

Ooh! Oh!

Ooh! Ooh!

Does that hurt?

- Hm?
- Beautiful.

- Maisie! Maisie! Open this door!
- Oh, my God! It's him.

- What'll he think?
- Open up! I know you're there.

Let me go! He's insanely
jealous. He'll kill me.

Oh, let go! Let go! Argh!

Damn adulterous bitch!

I'll choke the living
daylights out of you.

You'll be outnumbered,
Psaltery, at least 20-1.

That's how many lovers she's had.

Don't. Don't, please.
You don't understand.

No! No! No!

Down, strumpet!

Officer, if I'm not mistaken,
Mr Psaltery's murdering his wife.

Oh, thank you, sir.

Poor devil. Lionheart certainly
knew what his weakness was.

- Jealousy?
- Yeah.

It's incredible.

I gather from the constable on duty
outside that he's been coming for weeks.

But how does this fit in
with Lionheart's scheme?

Mrs Psaltery is dead, not Psaltery.

Well, he's as good as dead, isn't he?
At his age he'll never leave prison alive.

No. Lionheart's destroyed him just
as surely as if he'd murdered him.

I read the next play on the list last
night. Henry the Sixth, Part One.

- There's more than one murder in that.
- Inspector, there are only three of us left.

- Miss Moon, Merridew and...
- And yourself.

Myself.

Surely the entire might of the London
police force can stop us being killed.

Hopefully, Mr Devlin.

Hopefully.

Hey!

Sorry, darling, you're too
late. We're closed.

Yes, but Henri called me. He
changed the appointment to seven.

Oh.

What name is it, then?

Miss Moon.

Oh, yeah. That's cool.
Shampoo, set, pedicure. Right.

- Henri's had to go, but Butch is still here.
- Henri always takes care of me.

Butch is very chic.

Does Princess Margaret's
hair... chicks like that.

Oh, well. In that case...

Hello. I'm Butch.

Hey, dishy, dishy hair.

Can't wait to get my hands on it.

Who's this great big, beautiful
thing with you? Is he yours?

Only just.

Come on, baby. Let me get
to it. Let me get at it, huh?

You just sit there, baby, and
relax, huh? She won't be long.

I wish you'd let me do something
camp with the colour, darling.

I mean, like, well... like
flame with ash highlights.

These are very funny
rollers, Butch.

Naughty, naughty. Don't touch.

Butch knows best.

They're something
new from Gay Paree.

What are you doing?

You know, I'm very uncomfortable.

I can't move.

Bring forth that sorceress
condemned to burn.

That's from Henry the
Sixth, ducky, Part One.

It's a very interesting play,
don't you think so, Miss Moon?

Especially that scene where
Joan of Arc dies at the stake.

Though I'm afraid you might find our
novel version of it a bit of a shock.

And hark ye, sirs,
because she is a maid,

spare for no fagots,
let there be enow:

Place barrels of pitch
upon the fatal stake,

that so her torture
may be shortened.

Yet, forsooth, she
is a virgin pure.

Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

Break thou in pieces
and consume to ashes,

thou foul accursed
minister of hell!

- D'you mind if I talk to her in private?
- No, certainly.

Thank you for coming.

- As you can see, I couldn't get away.
- What do you want, Edwina?

Well, this morning before I left the
house to come here, the phone rang.

It was my father's voice.

I couldn't believe it.

To hear his voice again,
to know he's alive.

- What did he say?
- You were right all along. He's alive.

- Where is he?
- I can't tell you. Not yet.

For God's sake! There was another
murder last night. Miss Moon.

Yes, I know. I read
it in the papers.

He admits to the killings.
He'll give himself up.

Then take us to him.
I'll call Inspector Boot.

No. If he sees me with the police,
he's bound to disappear again.

- He's a frightened man.
- He? frightened?

He's frightened that the police
might shoot him on sight.

Do you want me to come with you?

- But... would you?
- Where is he?

He promised he'd phone me
and tell me where later.

All right. When he does,
I'll pick you up in my car.

- Promise we'll be alone.
- Right.

Don't try and trick me,
Devlin. He is my father.

No matter what he's done,
I must play fair with him.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Thank goodness no one can
get near enough to notice

the dazed, glazed, drunken,
idiotic expression in his eyes.

- You are to obey my orders. D'you hear?
- Yes, sir.

Now, let us see what that stupid
cretin Mr Meredith Merridew had to say

about my Titus Andronicus.

"Mr Lionheart's rendering of the role
can only be described as villainous.

"Laid between the delicately
underplayed performances

"of Miss Lillywhite as Lavinia
and Miss Mole as Tamora,

"one is irresistibly
reminded of a ham sandwich."

My reputation.

Hark, villain!

I will grind your bones to dust,

And make two pasties
of your shameful head.

Now you know what he looks like, so
keep your wits about you and eyes open.

Well, Sergeant, we've got four police
cars in front of Devlin's home

and three here at Merridew's.

They'll be bringing him home by
armoured car from work in ten minutes.

That should discourage
our Mr Lionheart.

Yeah, what's the next
murder, Inspector?

Intended murder,
you mean, Sergeant.

It's Titus Andronicus.

Two chaps are mutilated and beheaded,
another stabbed and thrown in a pit,

and to cap it all some queen is made
to eat her children baked in a pie.

It's hardly a comedy, Sergeant.
Still, I think we'll be able to hand...

That's him! After him.

That's him! After him, all of you!

Move it!

Ooh-ooh! Ooh-ooh! Ooh-ooh! Ooh-ooh!

Where are my babies, eh?

Daddy's home!

Ooh-ooh!

Where are my doggy-woggies?
My doggy-woggies?

Ooh.

Come to Daddy.

I know where you are.

I know where you're hiding.

Meredith Merridew,

this is your dish!

Oh! Oh!

What a divine surprise.

I've often thought, "What if
I was on This is Your Dish?"

And now that I am, I can't
think of anything to say,

except this is a very great honour.

Merci. Please be seated, monsieur.

There. Now, we will
make you comfortable.

There we go.

- Which is the camera?
- That one right over there, monsieur.

For what we are about to receive, may
the Lord make us truly thankful.

Amen.

Ooh.

Keep your eyes on the road!

What are you trying to
do, Sergeant? Kill us all?

Come on, Sergeant!

This is the best vintage, monsieur.

Soixante-six.

Oh!

Oh, I hope everything is to
monsieur's satisfaction.

- Simply delicious.
- Bon d'accord

I wonder where my
babies have got to.

My doggies, you know. I always
think of them as my babies.

Of course you do,
monsieur. And so do we.

That is part of your surprise.

I wish they were here
to share this with me.

Why, there they are,
both baked in that pie.

Whereof their mother
daintily hath fed,

eating the flesh which
she herself hath bred.

Oh. Mm.

What was that? Where are my dogs?
Where are my babies?

Well, if Monsieur cannot do without his
dogs, then he shall have his dogs.

Props!

You see, monsieur, two dogs...

two pies.

We knew that Monsieur
would be hungry.

Oh... oh...

You do remember, monsieur,
how in Titus Andronicus,

the Queen Tamora was served her
own children baked in a pie.

Of course, in your case we've
used only the tenderest morsels.

Do have some more.

Now, will you ever again ruin the
reputation of an honest man?

- No.
- Ah-hah.

- Have you learnt your lesson?
- Yes.

Can I be certain you will
never again offend me?

Yes!

You're quite right, I can be sure.

Thou detestable maw,

gorg'd with the dearest
morsel of the earth,

thus I enforce thy
rotten jaws to open,

and, in despite, I'll
cram thee with more food!

Pity.

He didn't have the stomach for it.

This is Hamlet calling Fortinbras.
Hamlet calling Fortinbras.

- 'Can you hear me?'
- This is Fortinbras.

You're loud and clear, Hamlet.
Everything all right?

Yes. I've reached the rendezvous.
She should be here any moment.

Fine. Let's have a check
on the homing device.

Right.

Good. As long as that signal keeps
coming in, we can't lose you.

Come in, Horatio.

'Come in, Horatio.
Are you receiving me?'

Receiving you, Fortinbras.
Is my signal clear?

'We're tied to your tail, Horatio.'

She's just coming.
I'm signing off now.

- He's not far from here. Shall we go?
- Edwina, I have to be honest with you.

There's a homing device in the
car. The police will follow us.

- But you gave me your word!
- Look, the man's homicidal.

I'm not tackling him on my own.

Yeah, you're right. But
you'll have to let me drive.

- Why?
- If he sees you, he won't give himself up.

Yeah, all right.

Don't worry, I can handle him.

Ooh!

'Horatio to Fortinbras. He's
started up the engine now.'

Right.

'Horatio to Fortinbras. We are
stopping. They are getting out.'

'I hear a train whistle.

'Yes, I can definitely identify
it as a train. T-R-A...'

Good day, Mr Devlin.

Welcome to the Critics
Circle Awards Presentation.

You will remember it, of course.

It was a memorable
occasion for all of us.

Today, however, we are
going to restage it

and you will again
present the awards.

Nothing you can do will sway
me from my original judgment.

Your judgment was ill-considered
and irresponsible.

It was neither!

We gave the award to
William Woodstock

because your performances
lacked originality.

Lacked originality?

My Julius Caesar... cut down by a
drunken mob in an abandoned warehouse.

My Titus Andronicus... "This is
your dish, Meredith Merridew."

My Othello... one of the greatest
performances in the history of the theatre.

Nothing you can do or say
will alter my decision.

We shall see.

No! Not one drop, until
you tell us where he is.

Be fair, Inspector. Think what
he'd do to me if I told you.

He'll do nothing! We'll put him away
where he'll never harm a soul again.

- D'you want a drink or don't you?
- Yes, please, Inspector.

- I'm just dying for a drop.
- First tell us where Lionheart is.

You will recall, Mr Devlin, that the last
play in my repertoire was King Lear.

And I'm sure you will remember
the fate that befell Gloucester.

He was blinded, Mr Devlin, to
improve his vision of events.

Perhaps a similar adjustment will
rectify your critical faculties.

Lionheart, think of your daughter.

Think of what you've done to her
with this insane vendetta of yours.

MY daughter?

What have I done to
you, my daughter?

Good my lord, you have begot
me, bred me, lov'd me.

I return those duties
back as are right fit.

Obey you, love you,
most honour you.

Give him the award.

- Forgotten the words, Mr Devlin?
- I remember them, but I won't say them.

You will repeat after
me, Mr Devlin.

With this award we not only honour a
consistently brilliant interpretative artist,

but we also recognise his outstanding
contribution to the English theatre.

Therefore it is my
privilege to announce

the Best Actor of the
Year Award goes to...

William Woodstock!

No! Present me the
award, Gloucester,

or you will lose your eyes and have
to smell your way through the world.

As Lear said at his greatest moment:
Never, never, never, never, never!

Never, never, never, so be it.

- Edwina, you will give me the award.
- Yes, Father.

It will be the last thing
that Mr Devlin will ever see.

The Critics Circle is happy to present
this award for Best Actor of the Year

to Edward Lionheart.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is
always a nostalgic moment

when we come to the
end of a season,

especially one that has been
as successful as this one.

Will you join me in the
toast to the Immortal Bard?

William Shakespeare!

William Shakespeare.

Shakespeare!

Burn.

Burn.

Come, fire.

Consume this petty world.

And in its ashes...

let my memory lie.

Help him.

Help your master!

Help!

This is your master's
glorious hour.

Please. Please help.

A plague upon you,
murderers, traitors all!

O, my daughter.

How does my royal lord?

How fares your Majesty?

You did me wrong to take
me out of the grave.

Thou art a soul in bliss,

but I am bound upon a wheel of fire

that mine own tears do
scald like molten lead.

We are not the first

who, with best meaning,
have incurr'd the worst.

For thee, oppressed king,

am I cast down.

Stay!

Stay awhile.

Howl.

Howl, howl, howl!

O, you are men of stones!

After him!

Look, he's heading for the roof!

There he is!

Fool. If he doesn't come
down, he'll be burnt alive.

Had I your tongues and eyes,

I'd use them so that
heaven's vault should crack.

She's gone for ever!

I know when one is dead,
and when one lives.

She's dead as earth.

Aaargh!

Were those lines from King Lear?

Yes. Yes, it was a
fascinating performance.

But, of course, he was
madly overacting as usual.

But you must admit he did
know how to make an exit.